


The Story of My Diagnosis

by Sheogorath



Category: Original Work
Genre: AU, Autism, Autism Acceptance, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheogorath/pseuds/Sheogorath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a teenager is diagnosed with a neurological disorder, his mother receives the shock of her life while he is happy and relieved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of My Diagnosis

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Institute for the Study of the Neurologically Typical](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/14334) by muskie. 



> This story is 100% my own original work, but could not have existed without the work of an Autistic woman called muskie.

# The Story of My Diagnosis.

I don’t know exactly when I first began to have the feeling that I was slowly going insane, I only remember that one day, I stood up in the middle of homeroom and screamed my lungs out, the crushing loneliness that I had felt ever since I could remember suddenly being too much to bear. That was the day my life came crashing down around my ears.

Miss McKinney, my homeroom teacher, promptly ushered me from the class and I followed her to the principal’s office, ignoring the other students as they hunched in their seats with their hands over their ears, groaning as if they were in pain. I couldn’t understand this as I hadn’t hurt my own ears, and they’re a lot closer to my mouth than anybody else’s. Anyway, to cut a long story short, after speaking to the principal, Miss McKinney came out of the office and said that I might enter. So I went in and was asked a bunch of questions by Mr Sherman, who then said that he would ring my parents to discuss how I was coping in school, as well as requesting that they take me home for the day. I asked him not to bother, saying that I was fine and the feelings I had expressed only came upon me once in a blue moon, but Mr Sherman insisted, saying that because he was in loco parentis during school hours, it was his job to ensure my welfare. Then, before he picked up the phone, he gave that peculiar not-quite-a-smile I’ve seen so often before as he told me not to worry, I would be okay. I don’t get it, if he really believed that, why not let me know properly? In fact, what’s wrong with everybody that even when they’re really enjoying themselves, they can’t just let out a big shit-eating grin like I do?

Sometimes, after thinking these things, I would wish that I could be like everyone else I knew, somebody who genuinely stimmed and was comfortable with aloneness, rather than faking ease with solitude just to try and fit in. I wanted to burst out laughing in the middle of class and not feel foolish doing it. I wanted to be able to find imaginative solutions to complex problems purely by having them pop into my head fully formed. I wanted to be creative and just pour out stories off the back of a germ of an idea. I wanted a real hug, not one that was too brief because of the other person’s discomfort, or too tight or too long so sensory needs could be fulfilled. And I simply wanted a friend that understood what I was going through, for Pete’s sake! 

Once the principal had finished his phone call, he sat back in his chair as Miss McKinney finally left the room, then I deliberately stared into his eyes until his head started jerking in an uncontrollable tic. I will say this in my defense, I don’t normally engage in such anti-social behavior, but I was pissed off, and besides, I had still not regained my normal emotional equilibrium. So I picked on Mr Sherman as the nearest available target. That’s when my mom walked through the door of the office and straightaway crossed the floor towards me, holding her hand up before dropping it disappointedly when I made no move to respond to her gesture of affection, simply sitting with my arms folded across my chest.

Mom and Mr Sherman had a discussion about me, each one’s gaze to the side as I wondered, not for the first time, how they ever managed to hold a decent conversation like that, then Mom told me that I’d be leaving school for the day and going to the doctor’s. I just nodded numbly. I had kind of expected this. Today I’d see our family physician, tomorrow, the psychiatrist to be pumped full of analysis, and if that didn’t work, to be involuntarily committed so more focused therapies could be tried, maybe even drug treatment. I knew all of this because that’s what my friend Steve had gone through after he had learned that his family would be moving to the other side of the country, leaving me behind. Steve wound up following his family in an ambulance, eventually being strapped down after he tried to start up conversations about baseball and the weather with the medical staff one too many times, using a lot of body language as he did so. He had related all this to me during a phone call after his release back into the community, and I’d coldly replied that he was the lucky one, at least he felt that his parents were the same as him, and he had no problems relating to the other students at his special school. He would easily be able to make a new friend, that I would be the one to be left completely alone and I hadn’t ended up several sandwiches short of a full picnic. Steve had never rung me again after that, and now it looked as if I was in the same boat as him. However, I soon found out that was not to be the case.

When I saw the doctor, he did indeed make an emergency referral to a psychiatrist, whom I soon discovered was a pleasant woman named Dr Greenbaum, and instead of saying that I should see her again, she referred me on to a behavioral psychologist, telling me that she was referring me for an assessment for Plethistic Spectrum Disorder. At this, I felt a rush of confusion sweep through me. Plethism? How was it possible I had that? After all, I wasn’t like Steve, who got motion sickness from rocking back and forth, was unable to stay fixed on one subject during a conversation in the face of all distractions, and also needed to constantly be amongst a crowd of his age peers at the special school he attended. He was even a member of Facebook and Google+, both of which I steered clear of because I liked my privacy, just like any other Neurotypical. Forums were good enough for me. And besides, if I suffered from Plethism, I would have been diagnosed when I was a toddler, right? So I must be honest and state that I was more than a little shocked and confused to hear Dr Greenbaum’s pronouncement. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t find out anything more for at least six weeks because that’s how long the waiting list for a full assessment was. That was the longest month and a half of my entire life.

✱   ✱   ✱

When the day of my assessment finally came around, Mom took time off work to drive me to the clinic in the next city where it was to take place, and she said she’d be there throughout in case I needed her for anything. All I could think of was how disappointed she and Dad would be if it turned out that I _did_ have a cognitive disability, so I asked her about that and she replied that although they would be sad if I had a neurological disease, they would never, ever be disappointed in me, I was their son and they would love me just the same, whether or not I required extra help. Thus reassured, I spent the rest of the journey with less apprehension than before, and it wasn’t too long before Mom was parking the car. She held her hand up and I pressed mine against it, giving her a smile as I did so, and for the first time in forever, she held my shoulder and kissed my forehead, causing me to close my eyes in bliss at the brief contact. Then we got out of the car and walked together into the building where my assessment was to take place.

As we entered a clean and bright waiting room, Mom walked up to the reception desk where she spoke briefly to a woman with Down’s Syndrome and a flat expression, who gave me what I imagine was a sympathetic look, then me and Mom sat down to wait for nearly twenty minutes before my name was called and we went down a broad corridor and through a white painted door. We entered yet another clean, bright room, this one surprisingly spacious, and were invited to sit down by a woman called Dr Morton Ann Gernsbacher, who accepted a bunch of papers from Mom and sat reading them before she started to ask her a lot of questions about me. Then she sent her out of the room with the explanation that a child (at which I snorted) tended to do better during this type of assessment without perceived parental pressure. So Mom left the room and it was on with the show.

Dr Gernsbacher first gave me Raven’s Matrices to do, which I rather enjoyed, then she set me the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale for the purposes of differential diagnosis. I liked this test even better than the first because of the variety provided by the language and math sections, and I soon finished it, taking only a few minutes longer to complete it than I had the Matrices. After the tests, Dr Gernsbacher asked me a bunch of questions with multiple options before asking me more questions which she wrote down on a piece of paper along with my answers as I rocked in my seat, rhythmically tapping my thighs with the tips of my fingers. Then she sent me to sit back in the waiting room with my mom while she formed her diagnosis.

After almost an hour, Dr Gernsbacher called me and Mom back into her office and we all sat down while she informed us of her conclusions from the assessment, telling us that in her opinion, I had high functioning Plethism with Neurotypical traits, these traits disguising my condition and allowing it to go undetected for so long. It was far too late for the early intervention therapies that might have helped me in early childhood, but I might still benefit from other treatments. Also, if all else failed, there were group homes and special schools for people who also suffer from Plethistic Spectrum Disorders, where I might make friends in a social group of a size of my choosing, although such things were always a last resort, and it was better to try other things to get me to be like normal people first. While this news was sinking in, Mom just sat there silently, then she burst into tears, asking if my cognitive disability was hers and Dad’s faults because they had always seen to my needs immediately when I was a baby, rather than simply leaving me to cry.

However, the doctor reassured her that that had nothing to do with it; in fact, while the ‘oven mother’ theory had been formed after the discovery in Romanian orphanages of children with Plethism who had Neurotypical-like behaviours as a result of emotional neglect, it was subsequently abandoned by doctors due to the documented cases of healthy Neurotypical children who had been born to Plethistic parents, thus growing up in households where one would expect them to be ‘smothered,’ yet still growing up disliking certain types of touch and not being overly distressed by relatively short periods of isolation from other people. Current research was now pointing towards the fact that what I had was genetic, either as a result of the disorder being passed down and skipping several generations, or an eccentric mutation of some or all of the genes that coded for Neurotypicality in a healthy individual. Then the doctor belatedly handed Mom a box of tissues, and she used one to wipe her nearly dry face, slightly smearing the small amount of makeup she’d applied especially for my appointment before loudly blowing her nose, at which I repressed a shudder of disgust.

Once Dr Gernsbacher had finished her explanations, I asked her if my condition was why I’d always felt like a freak; why I needed either more hugs than some people or less than others; why I always felt lonely when alone; why I was drawn to places that had lots of people; and also if it was why I never had a problem with initiating any conversation, especially about the football and other team sports that I watched whenever the Special Olympics were taking place. The psychologist stated that yes, it was the reason for all those things, and others besides. I was not to worry, however, she had a program I could join, which included Advanced Behavioral Analysis, that should help to make me fit in with normal people, and if it didn’t, there were the other options already discussed. I had nothing to say to that, but the grin of relief on my face totally knocked my shit-eating one out of the park. I _wasn’t_ a freak, I was Plethistic! _That_ was the reason for my disturbance, I had a neurological condition that I could now receive help for!

Just then, Mom enquired if I had the learning disability that affected seventy-five percent of people with Plethism, receiving the answer that although I did have a lower than average IQ at 106, any effects from this could be ameliorated with the help of a classroom aide. Then my mom asked if there could possibly be any mistake in my diagnosis, and Dr Gernsbacher said that no, unfortunately, there wasn’t. The fact that I had scored just two points less on the Wechsler Scale than on Raven’s Matrices showed that I had a high level of abstract thinking, and that, more than anything else, was a good indicator as to the nature of my deficits. It was just then that Mom stood up and put her arms around me, and when I questioned this, said that it was obvious that hand touching was never going to be enough for me, and that from then on, she was going to try and meet my special needs better. Again I had nothing to say, so I just put my own arms around my mom and enjoyed the first proper hug I could ever remember receiving from her before the doctor made me and my parents an appointment for post-diagnosis counseling. Then my mom and me left for home, Mom clearly still upset while I just carried on smiling with an immeasurable relief that I finally had a name to go by to understand why I felt so different from the majority of the global population. No longer would I have to suppress the movements my hands and arms wanted to make as I got into a subject I was speaking about; no longer would I have to hold back my laughter when others were laughing; no longer would I have to pretend interest in a conversation that was going totally over my head; and no longer would I have to discuss subjects that I found acutely embarrassing, such as digestive processes or masturbation. I would be free to live the way my conscience dictated, not society’s. Except that wasn’t to be the case.

✱   ✱   ✱

A few days after my assessment, my family had the post-diagnosis counseling that Dr Gernsbacher had offered, although I didn’t actually need it because of my accepting the fact of my diagnosis immediately it had been made. However, the interventions that had been planned for me did not work out so well, especially the ABA, because I had no wish to be molded into the Neurotypical ideal after spending the whole of my life so far as a Plethistic, and I wound up attending the same special school that my friend Steve used to, occasionally staying at a group home for respite, which I enjoyed very much. It might seem strange to you, if you’re Neurotypical, that I wasn’t bothered by being parted from my parents for up to three days at a time, but you have to remember that they were also Neurotypical and couldn’t give me as many hugs as I needed. Although the place I stayed at had Neurotypical staff running it, there were also Plethistic assistants who were never short of a three-second hug and maybe even an air kiss for a similarly disabled young person, and I soon started to look forward to the weekends that were as much a respite for me as for my parents.

Of course, my life still wasn’t without its difficulties. Whereas before my diagnosis I had not been Neurotypical enough to fit in, now I wasn’t Plethistic enough, and the lateness with which my condition had been discovered was viewed with much suspicion by the other students at my school, some of them even going so far as to accuse my parents of ‘doctor shopping'. All this got to the point where I actually started to verbally lash out, displaying such eloquence as well as a lack of empathy and control during my tirades and diatribes that there could be no doubt about my being on the Plethistic Spectrum, and the whispers and accusations finally stopped after three tedious weeks of them. However, I had been made extremely unhappy by the treatment I had received, so although I renewed my friendships at school, I also decided to set up the website on which you are reading this text.

You see, throughout all of my experiences, I have come to believe that everyone has the right to equal treatment; that Plethism is simply a neurological difference rather than a disorder of any type; and most importantly, that no one should be devalued on the basis of their neurological wiring. That’s why I’m perfectly happy to state that I’m a proud Plethie, and it's also why I set up this website. So if you are a member of the Plethistic Community, whether you are a Plethie, a Plethie with Neurotypical traits like myself, or simply a supportive family member or friend of a Plethie, you are welcome to join my site. You see, I don’t want anyone who has been shunned and picked on like I was to suffer in the same way I did, alone and with no one to turn to.

Michael James Freeman, webmaster of plethistics.org.

* * *

Author's Note: The Dr Morton Ann Gernsbacher in this story is a real person, and the reason I included her name is because she deserves the honour for being the most empathic Autism researcher on the planet.

**Author's Note:**

> Copyright © 2012 Romersa's Protégé. Individuals and groups are free to copy and share this work for all purposes except large scale distribution, subject to credit being given and any derivatives being released under the same or a similar licence. All other rights reserved.


End file.
